The TARDIS thief
by Chloerules4eva
Summary: "Just 'the Doctor', always 'the Doctor'. The Doctor is a legend woven throughout history. When disaster comes, he's there. He brings a storm in his wake and he has one constant companion: Death"
1. Chapter 1

There's a saying here on Earth that I find myself amused by on occasion, one of those rare moments where I forget distraction and the colours (for Sometimes even I grow weary of the same thing over and over, and there are always other novelties to puzzle over than a sky full of colours). It's just a little seemingly insignificant phrase to you that sometimes, mulling over it, I can't help but think of you in those times as sweet but ignorant children who still believe in Father Christmas (he doesn't exist. If you're not old enough to realise this, you're not old enough to read this further).

The scene is this, you're walking down a pathway, you might be abroad, you might be up the street from your home, you may even be turning the path onto your house, when lo and behold! A familiar face from long ago makes an abrupt appearance, and suddenly it's on the tip of your tongue, like a flavour bursting onto your senses, and then it's out there, binding you together in pure ignorant bliss.

**_THE PHRASE IS THIS:_**  
><strong>"It's a small world!"<strong>

**_YOUR VIEW OF THE WORLD HENCE:_**  
><strong>That your planet is small and therefore completely alone.<strong>

I'm being judgmental. Bigoted. Prejudiced. Close-minded. I'm judging you based on thousands' of years worth of seeing the very best and the very worst of humanity, (and believe me, I have seen it) but maybe you don't hold to those traditions and for that I appologise. But I will tell you one thing:

**_A SMALL NOTE OF INTEREST FROM YOUR NARRATOR:_**  
><strong>I'm not the only one judging you.<strong>

But enough! I've not made my introductions! Maybe you've guessed by now, and if you haven't... well, you'll know me soon enough, depending on a variety of different circumstances and variables. By this time I'm sure you'll have worked out that it's not worth thinking about that moment in your near or distant future when I will undoubtedly come for you. You'll be lying there, caked in your own body, (for I rarely find people standing up) and I'll be leaning over you. I'll be reaching down towards you with my open arms, a colour will be perched on my shoulder, and then I'll take you away. Does this surprise you? Worry you? Frighten you? I wouldn't waste my energy if I were in your shoes. The moment will come whether you want it to or not.

**_A REASSURANCE TO THE AFOREMENTIONED FACT:_**  
><strong>I may not be the most cheerful or charming of visitors, but I think you'll find me quite agreeable in the circumstances.<strong>

Why do I find myself dwelling on human expressions and colours in the sky you may ask? Distraction. That is the simple answer, beyond which becomes increasingly complicated. For what do I have to be distracted from?

I'll be frank, it's you. The leftover humans. The survivors. You're the ones I can't stand to look at, although many a time I fail in my attempts to block you all out. All too often it goes like this; there will be a scream, a cry, a wail, a soprano of denial and anguish and grief which would reduce me to tears if I weren't already so weathered down over the years by it all (although I'd be the first to admit it still tugs at my heart strings, why else would I need to be distracted?) and often in those moments I'll forget myself. Maybe I'll reach out a hand, make a sigh, and sometimes you'll ask to take you with them or return your loved ones, and I have to remind myself that it's not in my power to help you.

**_A FACT YOU MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE REALISED YET:_**  
><strong>I don't choose who dies.<strong>

So I will come for you as I do everyone, even for those who have long avoided me (and I have in my mind a certain blue military coat telling you this, but he'll make his appearance soon enough), and believe me I will come.

**_A NOTE FOR FUTURE REFERENCE:_**

**It's when I forget myself, the colours and the useless little novelties that come with life, that sometimes I will take note of things. There will be that moment, when I'm carrying a frail little soul in my arms, that I will look up and something will happen that will stay with me forever, a face, a message, a story... And I don't forget.**

I've carried around many stories in my pockets these past years, the Book Thief's was only one (if you haven't read it, I suggest you do). And while I've read many such books of humans who bring to mind the very worst and best of your kind, there are other stories travelling within these ancient pockets. I'm sorry to say that one such article is not among them, but my memory is long, although my time terribly short. If there were time I would write it all down, every single word, although I'm sure his story is written here and there, like crisp leaves on an autumn's day forever scattered and lost. I may be one of only a few who could tell you his entire story, or as near to it as anyone could tell save for himself, and maybe there are still thousand's of leaves out there I haven't yet discovered, each grown from a single, magnificent, ancient Tree.

You may even be clutching one now as I speak, knowing of whose story I am about to tell, and hoping your encounter will be among the few I will account for you here.

Therefore I will try not to go on stalling any longer, although I can make no promises. When you've existed as long as I have (and please note I say existed, I wouldn't want to confuse you) you find you have a lot to say. Here before you henceforth, lies a story. A much abbreviated and shortened story, but _his_ story none the less.

The man in question was a Thief.

He was a TARDIS Thief.

* * *

><p><em>This was an idea that came to me when I was on holiday two weeks ago. My favourite passtime on holiday is to read, so I was making my way through my favourite book for the second time, 'The Book Thief' by Markus Zusak, and I suddenly remembered a line from the very first episode of the revived Doctor Who series 'Rose':<em>

_"Just "the Doctor," always "the Doctor." The Doctor is a legend woven throughout history. When disaster comes, he's there. He brings a storm in his wake and he has one constant companion: **death"**_

_Who else would know the Doctor better than Death? (Who is about the most incredible narrator in the world)_

_I was debating whether or not to put this up now or wait until I've finished, since I hate leaving people in the loop, which I've done with previous stories (I WILL return to them at some point) but I just had to :) I'd love to hear what you think. _


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter two_

I haven't explained myself very well regarding my first port of call, so to speak. Why did I bring up that phrase, which seemingly has little to do with death or thievery? Well to do that I must first shatter your illusions of safety and security at once, for which I humbly beg your forgiveness. By all means if you wish to carry on in your somewhat deluded self-inflicted fantasy don't let me stop you. Simply leave your mind at rest and walk away now before my next few words.

_**THE FACT THAT WHICH WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE:**_

**You are not alone.**

There exists in the Universe shimmering above your head, in the very stars that shape your night sky (and that of the day as well, although you cannot see them all) not only a palate with a million shades and colours, but a whole wide world brimming with life. Life and death (for oh yes, my work is not confined to your 'small world'), and like your species the life surrounding your planet delivers both kindness and cruelty all at once, although perhaps humanity is amongst the best examples of both. (The biggest oxymoron in the universe; humanity.)

Take a good long look at what you have before you, the technology available to you. You think that because you've invented the Internet and have televisions and telephones you are Masters of technology? Oh you are still so young. I've seen worlds where buildings tower all the way into the stratosphere and beyond, and skies of an alien colour crowded by space shuttles from every corner-stone of the galaxy, and I tell you now that _that_ is mastery of technology. (Before you become offended at this, remember they've had more time than you, humanity is still so young and full of potential. Your time will come.)

And one of the greatest pieces of technology that I came across was this; the TARDIS.

I'm not doing it justice. If I were a true master of storytelling, I would thrust it into this chapter with glistening words, and glorifying adjectives, and that sound, that beautiful sound, the sound of the TARDIS, the sound of the Universe, and a healthy mix of descriptive long and short sentences. But alas, I am not. I am merely a narrator, not a storyteller. For instance, I don't take much stock in building mystery. Why would I need to? The way I see it, a story doesn't need to be one long line from beginning to end, it can twist and turn:

_**IN THE TARDIS THIEF'S OWN WORDS:**_

**"Like a big ball of wibley wobbly timey wimey stuff"**

So I will stick to my guns, so to speak, and tell you this.

_**THE ENDING OF THIS STORY:**_

**Will be a death. The death of our dear TARDIS thief.**

There. I haven't properly introduced him yet and already you know he is going to die. The sky will be deep blue, the blue of a sky without a trace of a cloud. There will be confusion on one part, acceptance on another, I'll be leaning over him with my arms outstretched, and it will end with the death of three things.

_**THOSE THREE THINGS:**_

**An imaginary friend, a rival, and a lover.**

But that is still to come. In short, the TARDIS is this, a machine created by the Time Lords (an alien race) which has the ability to travel through Time and Space, hence the name, which stands for **T**ime **A**nd **R**elative **D**imensions **I**n **S**pace. A piece of craftsmanship way beyond the intellect of humanity (again, before you become offended, I must state that is beyond the intellect of billions of species, not only your own).

Like cars, they came in different makes and upgrades, and the TARDIS waiting to be stolen, a Type 40, Mark 3 TARDIS, was already a museum piece when the TARDIS thief came across her. I remember it vaguely. Long before the War that wiped the TARDIS out, when the Time Lords were at the height of their golden age, the museum curator was an old man on his last life (Time Lord's have many abilities, which I will mention later) and he passed away in his small office, just around the corner from the TARDIS in question.

_**THE OLD CURATOR'S SOUL:**_

**Old and gentle. He came away from his body like removing a nut from its shell. I lifted him gently, his was one of those souls reluctant to come with me at first, but after a moment he was content to be in my arms. I imagine he still thought himself dreaming. As I walked past the TARDIS, his soul turned as if to take in his surroundings one last time. I had time, I allowed him his moment, and I allowed myself the distraction. The colour of the floor was a rich blue. She must have grown to like the colour.**

There was an ache in the air. Maybe I imagine it thinking back, knowing what I know now, but dwelling on the memory seems to have a sense of imprisonment and despair in the Museum setting, more so than usual with a dash of loneliness, and an underlying tone of impatience. The TARDIS was waiting of course.

_**WHAT THE TARDIS WAS WAITING FOR PRECISELY:**_

**A man mad enough to steal her.**

And along came that man, not long later, when I was already far away, a man with many names.

He opened the unlocked TARDIS door, and as he touched its console, he said something which stole the heart of the TARDIS and thus began his legend. How I wish I could have been there, right at the start.

_**THE FIRST THING HE SAID UPON TOUCHING THE TARDIS CONSOLE:**_

**"You are the most beautiful thing I have ever known"**

And then they flew away.


End file.
